


Her Attention

by AkisMusicBox



Category: Skip Beat!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Introspection, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkisMusicBox/pseuds/AkisMusicBox
Summary: If Ren Tsuruga had hanahaki disease, spanning from Ring Doh through Dark Moon.
Relationships: Mogami Kyoko/Tsuruga Ren
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	Her Attention

**Author's Note:**

> Aikori and Persie helped me conquer my white whale, a hanahaki fic. All praise and/or blame goes directly to them.

He should have known better. He was an actor. He'd read numerous books, watched countless movies, seen so many plays. It was a trope. He knew tropes, he built characters on tropes, he could recognize a pattern. The first time it happened, Kyoko had been taken to recover after the tea ceremony. If she'd have broke when the scene ended, he didn't know it'd have been the same. But the director had to yell "Cut!" and she was taken away and he had to find a bottle of water. He had a tickle in his throat. It was too hot outside.

With his first sip, he coughed it back up, along with a wet, mangled rose petal.

* * *

The second time it happened, she had been so desperate to get that little blue rock back. She could have hurt herself even more. That leg could have been ruined, she could have totally needed him to lean on -- but no. All of her hopes had been directed at that thing clutched between his fingers. The radiant heat of her stare was to blame. Or the finger she flipped at him -- he laughed. He coughed. He buried the torn petal in his pocket.

* * *

Milk, sugar, caffeine. It'd soothe his scratchy throat, the irritation that had grown on him through that day. The scraping that was her, trying to wait on him. Trying to attend to him. Keeping her focus on him. No wonder he fell on her, ill. No wonder his fever wouldn't abate. She never looked under the blanket, she couldn't have. She'd have panicked, for sure. She'd not have just put a cold compress on him and made him breakfast if she saw a rose's worth of petals on the sheet.

* * *

How could Takarada have known? And wasn't his condition proof that he was Katsuki, heart and soul? "It'll ruin your career. It'll ruin your health. It's not brave. It's not beautiful." But, her career could be made with this. She wanted to work with him. All of her hopes were directed at him.

He had to run to the bathroom afterward he agreed. He could only reach the sink before the mouthful gagged him.

* * *

Her time and her body. The request nearly made him sick. He could feel his temperature rise and crackling in his chest as he breathed. But she agreed and that made it bearable. It was fine, for the most part, because he wasn't him, he was Katsuki and he needed to drive away the young, headstrong Mizuki. He needed to deter her attention.

She made herself bleed to keep up the scene. And when he was on top of her, in her arms and she was so warm, he could let let himself believe she didn't hate it. That she found the same refuge that he did in that moment. And he didn't want to vomit? God, it was such a relief. He felt so light, he laughed and he laughed, and it made her so mad but he needed the moment.

* * *

A petal here or there meant he was getting better. And she still worried to that day about her fairy prince? He could live like that. Love comes in all forms: familial, platonic, compassionate, playful. She had sworn off the romantic, but she was full of love of herself, her friends, and her mentors. Her love had needs, she hungered, but it had nothing to do with lust. She craved companions. He could be one.

Until he watched that fucking P.V. Doubled over the couch, cotton mouth gasping for breath, split whiskey soaking each velvet drop. Like blood welling from the cream-colored carpet. It was fitting because being that selfish meant he was truly a prick.

He wasn't good enough to live on respect alone.

* * *

The nice thing about modeling was the copious amounts of breaks. Each costume change gave him a chance to spit them out. Jumping in the ocean was reason to fill his mouth seawater and let the bits drift away. The icy cold water kept the fever at bay.

Her call had left his mind burnt out. Fried. The only bit of sense left in him sent Yashiro ahead of him so he could finish his job.

He was relieved to see her safe. He was gutted to not be told the truth. He was so tired of Fuwa appearing out of nowhere like... like a trope that he refused to acknowledge. He wasn't winning her back, that Ren would ensure. 

Even if she was oblivious to why he intervened, why he literally spun her away, it was worth it. Ren would stop this plot line that was drawing Fuwa to her, even if he spilled a bouquet all over his tacky shoes in the process.

* * *

He'd never been so often sick in his life, so why, why did he ask her to be his pillow? He'd pay for it. He'd be punished for his moment of repose. Every inhale of her chest, every stroke of her fingers, every time eyes twitched under her lids increased his debt. 

He thought he was done racking them up before she said, "You give me courage and confidence." The cough was basically a reflex at that point. All he'd have to do his hide the petals in his palm. Then he'd be able to slip away for a moment to find a trash can before getting on the bus. He'd done it before.

"Your face," Yashiro said and Ren's stomach dropped. A smear of red. A shred of petal. Something had to be clinging to his lips that he hadn't been able to scrub away. "You were smiling."

"Oh? Is that so?" Plan B. He rubbed his fingers against his palm, trying to roll up the petals to slip into his pocket. He stroked bare skin. 

He froze. He couldn't have lost them. A drop of spit or sweat always adhered them to his hand. They were unavoiable, unloseable, a streak of scarlet no matter what would stain his hand. He opened his palm. Nothing. 

Ren barely caught a jab about "insignificant progress" as he played back the the last hour. The last day. The last plane ride he took. Nothing. 

"Are you satisfied with just that?" Yashiro prodded, turning his attention tonthe bus. She waited by the door in her black, billowy top and rose-printed skirt. She smiled at him so warmly and it was all he could do to not let himself respond in kind. 

No petals. No coughing. No fever, no scratching, no rattling in his chest. No weighing his options if active or passive suffering were preferable. "I have no idea what you're talking about in the slightest," Ren replied with barely restrained glee.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [His Anguish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408638) by [Aikori_Ichijouji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikori_Ichijouji/pseuds/Aikori_Ichijouji)




End file.
